


The Life and Times of Harry Potter

by Writer_or_Whatever



Series: The Life and Times!Verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Hermione Granger, Asexual Hermione Granger, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coming Out, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Harry Potter, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Era, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Draco Malfoy, Nonbinary Sirius Black, Pansexual Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Pre-Hogwarts, QUEER HARRY POTTER, References to Depression, Time Skips, Trans Character, Trans Remus Lupin, multiple eras, supportive friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 22:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14270751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_or_Whatever/pseuds/Writer_or_Whatever
Summary: Little Snippets out of the Life and Times of Harry Potter.Takes Place in the Life and Times!Verse, so it complies with The Life and Times of Sirius Black.





	The Life and Times of Harry Potter

Harry is eight the first time that being called “boy” by Uncle Vernon actually  _ hurt _ . They were used to the acerbic tone and loathing that always accompanied that particular moniker from Uncle Vernon, no, what stung was the word itself. For the first Harry could remember, “boy” didn’t fit, it slid off them like water and their skin felt  _ wrong _ , like it was a size too small and Harry didn’t know why, they only knew that on that particular Wednesday, and the following three days,  _ him _ and  _ boy _ just didn’t fit. 

 

Harry is nine and a half and half way through the school year when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia sent Dudley to a new school. They’d done it because the teacher that Harry and Dudley shared, Mrs. Sara Smith, used to be Mr. James Smith and they wanted precious Dudley away from the influence of a  _ queer _ , they’d said. They’d have pulled Harry too, so he wouldn’t possibly be  _ more _ freaky but then they’d have to pay for his schooling when his primary school was free- he wasn’t worth it they’d said. They’d warned him not to “catch the queer” but had left him in Mrs. Smith’s class. Personally, Harry didn’t understand their prejudice remarks as he couldn’t imagine Mrs. Smith as a man, she seemed so happy the way she was and “Mrs” really fit her. He wondered if “Mr” felt as  _ wrong  _ to her as it sometimes did to him on those days he has where “miss” would fit so much better than “mr” seemed to, or those he had where he wanted no title at all because both “mr” and “miss” made his insides knot up and his skin itchy and he wished his teachers would just call him “Potter” or “Harry” because he felt like neither a boy or girl. Most days, though, “Mr. Potter” suited him just fine, or fine enough, so he never asked Mrs. Smith about it, even though he figured she might know something, because his fear of what the Dursleys would say if they found out always outweighed the discomfort and his burning desire to just  _ understand _ why he sometimes felt the way he did. 

 

Harry is eleven and his Hogwarts Letter, or letters rather, had come by owls over the course of several days and, while he desperately wanted to know what they said, he was also a little glad that, after the initial letter addressed to a Mr. Harry Potter, his Uncle burnt any and all letters with the Hogwarts crest on the envelope without so much as checking to see who they were addressed to, because Harry had seen six to a “Mr. Harry Potter,” four to a “Harry Potter,” no title used at all, and two to a “Miss. Harry Potter.” And those were only the ones he managed to catch a glimpse of before they were merely ashes. While the letters made him feel kind of warm inside, he couldn’t help but feel a little sick at the thought of Uncle Vernon’s reactions if he caught sight of one of the letters from a day where Harry felt very much like a girl and not at all like a boy, though those days were rarer than days when “he” or “they” fit him best. One such day was on her birthday, when Uncle Vernon made them all leave the house and go somewhere secluded in attempts to escape all the “freaky letters” meant for Harry. It was on that night when a giant bearded man, later introduced as Hagrid, blasted down the door of where they were staying, Harry’s Hogwarts letter in hand. Upon seeing the letter, disappointment settled in Harry’s gut and her skin felt itchy and too tight and the air burned in her lungs. “Mr. Harry Potter” it said and she didn’t understand, these Hogwarts people had gotten it right before, but now, on her  _ birthday _ , it was wrong. Harry just stared at the letter in the half-giant’s outstretched hand and willed herself not to cry. “Go on then, it won’t bite,” Hagrid said, thrusting the letter towards Harry and, though it was possibly the last thing she wanted to do, she took it. Upon coming in contact with her hand, the address changed, now addressed to one Miss. Harry Potter. Harry’s gaze snapped from the now correct address to the Dursleys only to find that they were looking anywhere  _ but _ at Harry and Hagrid, likely afraid they’d “catch the freakishness.” Inside the letter was information about the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a school for magic, a school Harry would be attending come September, a school that was allowing her a place in both the Boys’ and Girls’ dormitories and would let her wear either the boys’ or girls’ uniform, a school that taught  _ magic _ and was okay with the way she was. This was, by far, the best birthday she’d ever had. 

 

Harry is eleven and a half and it was Christmas Eve. It was the Christmas Holidays and Harry was exhausted. Exhausted from the first term at Hogwarts (magic was harder than Harry thought it would be), exhausted from trying to ignore the speculation about why there was an extra empty bed in the Gryffindor Girls’ Dormitory (not everyone was quite as accepting as Harry’s Hogwarts letter had led Harry to believe and Harry had yet to muster up the courage to sleep there on days where being a girl just  _ fit _ \- some Gryffindor Harry was turning out to be), exhausted from the many nights in the past term spent in the common room sleeping (Harry was either too scared to sleep in the girls’ dorm or neither set of stairs would admit Harry entrance), and, presently, exhausted because Harry had spent all day avoiding everyone because being called anything other than “Harry” felt wrong (even “they,” which normally wouldn’t bother Harry on days that were neither “he” or “she” days) and Harry accepted another sleepless night in the lumpy armchair by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. As Harry sat there, curled up with feet tucked beneath bum, trying to fall asleep, Harry marvelled at the fact that the name Harry, the name that felt like Harry’s only real link to James and Lily Potter and the family the three of them once were, settled over Harry like a second skin that always felt right even on days where the real skin itched and burned and felt like it was so tight that Harry was liable to suffocate. This last thought made Harry warm and tingly inside- even on days when nothing fit and Harry thought no one would understand, James and Lily had managed to leave Harry something that  _ always _ felt right and never hurt and it made Harry love the parents that Harry would never get to know a little more. 

 

Harry is thirteen and having more days where “he” just didn’t fit than ever before. They spent more days feeling like they fit neither boy nor girl (though there were still days when Harry did fit one or the other). They spent more time in the lumpy chair by the fire and their cleaning and freshening charms, normally fifth year spells, had become amazing (a necessity when the boy’s dormitory stairs wouldn’t let them up half of the time). They were increasingly restless and tired (from the lack of sleep and weird looks they got for sometimes being seen sleeping in the common room) and they were anxious (They kept catching Hermione giving them sidelong glances and they knew that she knew that something was up). The thought of coming out to Hermione as, well, whatever it was that they were (they had no idea what it was called when someone felt the way Harry did, though they were certain that Hermione could find a name for it in some book somewhere if- no, when- they told her), scared the hell out of them because they’d never actually  _ told _ anyone before. Despite being scared out of their wits, Harry made up their mind to tell Hermione (well, eventually anyway). After two weeks of mostly sleeping in that damned lumpy common room chair and becoming increasingly tired and cranky and scared (while also simultaneously avoiding everyone’s questions of “what’s wrong” and trying to find the right time to tell Hermione), Harry was cornered outside by the lake, where he’d taken to sitting whilst trying to figure out what to say to Hermione. He’d managed to stay awake during his time outside that day (after finally having been allowed back into the boys’ dorm the night before for a night of lump-free sleep) and was once again spending his free period sitting under a tree by the lake imagining every possible bad situation that might arise by coming out to Hermione when that very bushy-haired girl sat down beside him and demanded he tell her what was going on and, that as his best friend, she’d help him with whatever was wrong. So he did. And, as soon as the confession left his mouth and he was engulfed in a hug that quite possibly rendered his lungs unable to ever properly function again, he couldn’t help but think of how much time he’d wasted worrying over her reaction. This was probably the best day to date, only surpassed by, perhaps, the next day when she quietly asked Harry what pronouns were needed for the day (and possibly by every morning thereafter wherein the trend continued).

 

Harry is 16 and broken. Sirius was, while not the first to love Harry unconditionally and respect Harry’s gender, the first Harry had talked to who knew what it felt like to question who you are and feel that feeling where nothing feels right and breathing hurts and your body feels wrong (which, Sirius informed Harry was called Dysphoria). They’d been the one to tell Harry a term to describe the feeling of being a girl some days, a boy on others, somewhere in between or sometimes none of the above (Genderfluid), despite Hermione’s best efforts at researching it. Sirius had taken Harry under their wing and hadn’t seen the famous Harry Potter or the Boy-Who-Lived or the Chosen One or James or Lily Potter, rather Sirius had just seen Harry. They’d helped Harry learn to love who Harry was and loved Harry even on days when Harry didn’t. Harry wondered if that was what was what having parents was like (Harry really wasn’t sure and supposed there was no way to be sure, having never actually had a parent). Sirius was dead and Harry was broken, not knowing what to do with the guilt or the sudden feeling of disconnect Harry felt to everything- including themself. Harry had no idea what to do except try to cope and hope it got better one day. 

 

Harry is eighteen and barely an adult and, for the first time, unafraid. Voldemort was dead and she was out, out to her friends and the world. She had decided, in the haze of days following the war, that she owed it to herself to come out (and not just to herself but others like her, past and present, like Remus and Sirius). Her public statement of being queer and genderfluid and damn proud of it had caused some media backlash (“Is this just a phase for the Boy-Who-Lived or is he really a queer?”), quite a bit of hate mail (“how dare the savior of the wizarding world be a queer?!”), several more public coming outs (Ginny and Neville were gay, Luna was agender and panromantic, Hermione was aromantic and asexual, and Draco Malfoy was nonbinary and pansexual and every one of them were out and proud), and several new friendships upon her return for her “eighth year” at Hogwarts (Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were actually amazingly easy to get on with without their “pureblood Slytherin masks” on). She spent nights in both dorms, and some in the common room (though she, Luna, Draco, and several other genderqueer students were working with the newly appointed headmistress McGonagall to create dorms for agender and non binary students in all four houses) and wore both uniforms and had her fair share of nightmare and fights with bigots, and sometimes missed those she lost so much it was like a physical ache. Despite that, though, Harry was happy (she just wished Sirius was here to see it). 

 

Harry is twenty five and happy. They had a great job as an advocate for equal rights (for all sorts of people: LGBT witches and wizards, creatures, muggleborns, war veterans, and war orphans) in the Wizengamot. They had gorgeous twin children, James Sirius and Lily Narcissa, who called them mum or dad or parental unit (their partner finds that one hilarious for some reason), and a great spouse (Draco Malfoy of all people). The last six years had treated Harry kindly, and, while they still wished Sirius and Remus and so many others could be here to see it, all was truly well. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr at [@writer-or-whatever](https://writer-or-whatever.tumblr.com/), feel free to drop a request, they're open. 
> 
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